I had not tried the wine that ancients made, br And had not heard of Ossian’s old tune; br So why, on earth, I seem to see the glade, br And, in the skies -- the bloody Scottish moon? br br And the call-over of a raven with a harp br I faintly hear in that silence, full of fright, br And, spread by winds, the winter woolen scarves br Of knights are flashing in the red moonlight! br br I had received the blessing to inherit br Another singer’s ever rambling dreams; br For kin’s and neighbor’s spiritual merits br To have despise we’re absolutely free. br br And not a lone treasure, I suppose, br Will pass grandchildren and to others fling, br Again a scald will ancient songs compose, br And, as his own, will again them sing.